Partners in Crime

I can't remember much about the day we first met. Was it sunny? Was it windy? I think I was three years old, or maybe five, but my age wasn't important. I was playing in my backyard sandbox, the school playground, a public park when you approached me. I heard you gently whisper my name. Laura. It sounded familiar to your lips, as if we knew each other in a previous life. You promised we'd be together forever. At the time, I didn't realize how serious you were.

I hear the front door slam shut, followed by the thunk of a briefcase. My mother is home.

I always liked my mother. She chose to keep me even when her husband, my estranged father, opted for a life without us. Whenever I hugged her, she smelled like warm milk and vanilla spice. Her love of life was reflected in her defined laugh lines. She was my safety blanket, wrapped in a pink-purple apron and floral tennis shoes.

My mother finally notes the silence. We are never silent.

"Laura?" Her peeved voice calls out. It’s strained from a long day at work. The fifty-year-old stairs creak under her heavy steps.

When I introduced you to my mother, she smiled brightly and welcomed you with a platter of freshly baked cookies. Back then, I think you only liked her because she packed extra cookies in my lunch for us to share. You loved her chocolate chip cookies.

She laughed at our chases around the house, and she made sure to wave goodbye when you left. We always lied. As soon as the stars came out, you’d sneak back in through the window, and we’d spend the whole night confiding in one another. The perfect partners in crime, we never got caught.

The voice calls out again, but I remain mute, my lips pressed together. I feel a drop of sweat fall from my cheek. It could’ve been a tear.

As the years went by, we noticed a transition in her behaviour. To your discontent, she stopped packing cookies. Bitterness crept into her voice at each hello you exchanged. She began to watch our every move, warily, and hissed at me to end our friendship. I couldn’t understand why this was happening. You were a poster child for the greatest best friend.

My classmates started acting the same way. One by one, they stopped talking to us. School became lonely when the people I knew avoided me. It became even lonelier when they were against me.

I remember the recess where I got a rock thrown at my nose. It started to bleed, dripping on my best dress, and the yard erupted in laughter. It echoed in my ears as I ran to the bathroom. Hiding in a stall, you comforted me with the knowledge you'd always be there for me. I didn't reply.

I flinch at each bang I hear, doors being opened and closed hurriedly. You press your hands firmly on my leg, shushing the whimpers that escape from my closed mouth.

My mother grew to hate you. Whenever she noticed us playing, she'd scream at me to stop. She would rush into the kitchen and grab a wooden spoon. My mother loved to cook, and we had many wooden spoons in a teddy-shaped, porcelain jar. I didn't like the marks they left on my face, my arms, my back. A unique purple flower blossomed for each spoon. My mother insisted that when asked, I was to reply that I fell.

To others, I was really good at falling. They laughed every time I fell. So did you.

The footsteps draw closer and closer, until they stop outside our door. The pause makes my heart skip a beat, but I don't wait long. The door swings wide open to my frantic mother. I can't tell if she is relieved or furious. I think it's a mix of both.

"Laura! What the hell are you doing in the-" She frowns and looks down at the object in my hands. This is your plan, not mine. Her eyes go wide before they rise to meet my own, and she gulps. I see the pleading look she has on her face moments before you giggle and give me a nudge. I think about wooden spoons.

I lunge.

I sit on the floor with my arms wrapped around my legs. I hear the front door pounding, but I ignore it. It could be the blood rushing in my head. My shaking hands feel sticky and wet. You suggest that I wash them, but I ignore you as well. You said you would go away if I listened. As my mother's life pools around me, her ragged breaths slowing, I can only think of one word.

Liar.

I glare at you as the door crashes down. There are loud shouts, deep gasps, a few trembling sobs, but I remain focused on your face. Your smile makes me want to vomit. You don't go away.

Liar.

You don't leave my side when careful hands grab my arms. Even as they drag me out of my house, as I scream at you—Fuck off!—to leave me alone, you follow me into their car, grinning at my unfolding rage.

Liar.

No one visits me, but I suppose I don't mind it. I know they would approach me like the adults here: cautiously, fearfully, and pityingly. You are the only one who doesn't pity me.

Staring out the window, I can see the setting sun. It sets my white walls ablaze with fiery shades. Today, there are hints of purple; they are lighter hues than the ones that used to stain my skin. You sit next to me on the bed, and we chat about nothing in particular. You crack a joke, and I burst into laughter. I hear footsteps quicken as they pass my room.

We fall silent for a moment to admire the colours dancing across the sky. They are too beautiful for someone like me. I close my eyes and picture my mother from before we met, her multicolored apron, the milky-vanilla scent. She slowly contorts into a blotch of red.

I think back to something she had said with a tight smile and tired eyes. We all outgrow our imaginary friends, Laura. But she was wrong. I can't outgrow you because I need you. When everyone else disappeared, you were the only one to stay. And I hate you for it.